


Rootwork

by Kyla_Wren



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, DrummerWolf, F/M, Halloween Costumes, Martin and Amanda cuteness, Pararibulitis attacks, Regional Soft Drinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-06 10:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Wren/pseuds/Kyla_Wren
Summary: Amanda’s visions lead the Rowdies down to the Louisiana Bayou and New Orleans on All Hallow’s Eve- just in time to help Dirk Gently deal with a homicidal biker gang, an escaped Blackwing subject with fascist aspirations, a Vodou Queen, and a missing painting of debatable importance.With the help of her supportive vampire boyfriend and all of her pals, it’s sure to be dangerous fun...An imagined Season 3, presented as a supercut of all the Rowdy 3 and Amanda Brotzman scenes.(Set directly after my fic “Trouble is Swell”, but can be read as a standalone.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do you guys like having a soundtrack to your fic? Dr. John’s 1968 album Gris-Gris (spooky psychedelic New Orleans music) is my audio atmosphere of choice for this story.

Three days after Amanda learned to use her wand, she had a vision of death.

It started with a nightmare. Unconsciousness gave her less control over her disease and its triggers, and the state between sleep and waking left her vulnerable. In her dream she had been alone again, abandoned, back in her grandmother’s empty old house with the grey walls closing in. 

The confusion of inexplicable loss clouded her mind as she walked with weighted legs through thick syrup. She wasn’t supposed to be here. If she was back here she had lost something so important to her, so vital -

She woke up with the attack already starting.

Her wrist had pins and needles from being folded under her as she slept. While her eyes dilated in the dark the sensation became more and more physical until hallucinatory spikes manifested in her arm. Her skin was turning to static. She whimpered, fighting for control. The dream clung to her brain and she didn’t know where she was or if she was alone. Blue mist rose around her.

Another layer of unreality splintered through her brain as the visions hit, one after the other in quick thunderclaps. Blood. A crystal chandelier. The bayou and the backwoods. Chanting. The face of a murdered man, unknown to her. Candles dripping wax.

Cool hands rested on her collarbones, keeping her still. She felt the pain leave her arm, the fear rolling out of her like a tide. Her eyes focused. Martin was bending over her in the dark motel room. She wasn’t alone.

Gripps and Cross were sleeping head-to-feet in the double bed next to them. Vogel was on a pop-up bed like the extra kid on a family vacation. The AC was humming and they were in Louisiana. She was with her chosen brothers and her love, and she was safe.

Amanda let out a long breath.

“Okay now?” Martin said, gruff and soft all at once. He had been sleeping on top of the quilt, stripped to the waist but still wearing his jeans and belt. It had been an effort to get him to take off his boots, she remembered. Indoors, he was always ready to go. Just in case. Cross still had his on, of course.

“Yeah,” she threaded her fingers through his. “Just… reorienting.”

Martin said nothing, waiting and watching. She focused on her memories of what was real. Jamming with Todd. Eating a hamburger with Cross on the roof of the van. Getting a piggyback ride from Vogel. Posing for Gripps while he sketched her profile. Everything with Martin.

She sat up to kiss him. He felt the most real of all. She was centered again.

“I keep seeing the swamp,” she whispered. “It doesn’t go away. The visions… they’re getting more intense. Something is gonna happen here. I don’t know if it’s good.”

Martin kissed her again for a long moment.

“Do you feel like we should be stayin’ or goin’?”

“I feel like… we need to stay. We’re supposed to be here. Don’t you feel it too?”

He nodded. “I do.”

She rubbed her eyes, pensive and tired. Martin moved the blankets aside and got beneath them so he could hold her. She moved in as close as possible, encircled by his arms. The Rowdy closed his eyes like a contented cat.

“I saw some dead guy,” she whispered, reluctant to share.

“Anybody we know?”

“Not yet.”

“Sleep now,” he suggested, smoothing her hair back. “We’ll deal with it in daylight.”

They did. At breakfast (Amanda chewing on a granola bar, Cross drinking a beer, Martin smoking a cigarette), they circled up outside to discuss Drummer’s visions and the most vague outline of a plan.

“Whatever is going to happen, we’re gonna be a part of it,” she finished, looking around at each of them to test their reactions. The Rowdies were confident and unbothered.

“The action always comes to us, Boss!”

“The thing is, I don’t know when that’s gonna be.”

“Then we just wait,” Vogel shrugged, like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

On the third day of _just waiting_ , the action came to them in a big way.

They were tagging the underside of a railroad bridge in the backwoods, adding their marks to a collection made by years of passerby. The head-spinning smell of spray paint filled the air, along with the clicks and rushing sounds of the cans emptying out. Gripps had a talent for complex shaded lettering, and while the rest of them goofed off with 3s and nonsense shapes he was working on a huge masterpiece of text. It said “FUCK BLACKWING”.

Amanda took a can of matte black and shook it until the paint loosened and the bead rattled inside. She put the Apprentice Wand down on a stray sheet of newspaper and sprayed it with an even coat until the blue and brown were swallowed up. It looked like a sliver of reality was missing, a narrow void in the shape of a wand.

“Sick,” she whispered to herself. After a minute she flipped it, pulling away sticky paper, and sprayed the other side.

She sensed Martin standing behind her, appraising the result.

“That thing still work?” he asked, scratching his beard. It was a fair question. Maybe paint blocked magical energy.

“Uh,” Amanda picked it up and took aim at an abandoned beer can in the gravel, litter from a party long gone. She focused until the wand felt like part of her arm and summoned up from her core the irate determination that made her magic take physical form. A bolt leapt from the blackened crystal and lit up the beer can with crackling electricity. “That’s a yes. What do you think?”

Martin whistled. 

“It’s good. Much more... you.”

Amanda smiled at him. 

“You get my aesthetic.”

Her favorite Rowdy looked at her and over to his brothers absorbed in their work. He raised his finger to his lips and then reached over to pick her up.

Amanda swallowed her shriek and then laughed silently, shaking against him as he carried her up the slope to the tracks.

The rail line was dead here. Every third wooden plank was broken and most of the ties were gone, likely sold for scrap. Plants were growing, reclaiming the space for the woods. Amanda found it quite beautiful. 

“Looks like a ghost train is going to roll through here,” she whispered. 

He didn't reply, but brought his mouth to hers with a suddenness and urgency that caught her off guard. He wove a hand into her hair, running his thumb across her jaw. The other moved down her spine. She relaxed and smiled into his kiss. Martin had a real nifty way of bleeding all her tension away, even without drinking her energy.

With a gentle tug he brought her down into the soft grass by the tracks, still cradling her head. Her dark hair fanned out around her in a halo. Martin pulled away to stare at her face for a moment.

“You're a real beauty, love-of-mine.”

Amanda snorted. “I appreciate it, but I think you're a liar.”

“Never lie.”

“I haven't showered in a couple days.”

“Still beautiful.”

He kissed her again before she could argue. Travelling with their three best friends meant any time alone was all the more precious.

The distant rumble of motorcycles made them halt, stilling to listen.

Martin's hackles rose.

“Nobody's supposed to be out here.”

“We’re out here,” she pointed out.

“Got that wand?” His fingers danced under her shirt, sliding up.

“Nice move. I don't keep it there.” She ran her hand along the inside of her jacket. “Shit, it's on the ground.”

“Boss, you forgot your taser!” Vogel charged up the slope, crushing the undergrowth and brandishing the black apprentice wand upside down. He covered his eyes. “ _Ahh!!_ Sorry!”

Martin rolled off of her with reluctance, laying back in the grass.

Cross ran up with Gripps in tow.

“You guys smell that?” Sometimes Cross forgot that Amanda couldn't sense things quite the way they could.

“I heard it,” she sat up. “Where's it coming from?”

Gripps titled his head, breathing in.

“Down The Tracks. East.”

“Let's check it out, huh?” Amanda looked at Martin, who gave her a little nod. “Quietly.”

It would have surprised an outsider to see how silent the five of them could be as they moved along the tree line. Usually they were a tornado of sound, made up of smaller cyclones of splintering furniture and yelling. Now the little hyena pack was on a hunt, and could stalk with the best of them.

A little farther East, the rails became a trestle bridge over what looked like a dried-up creek bed. It was a crawling ant-hill of people, and more on motorcycles were joining as they watched. The Rowdy 3 crouched in the bushes to observe.

“68 Down There,” Gripps said. His eyes moved in rapid circles as he counted.

“Hey, those are the same guys from the bar!” Vogel hissed. “Just, more of them!”

“Should we go down there? Break their heads?” Cross grunted, unsure.

“There’s too many of them,” Amanda said. There was no denying it, but she could tell the idea didn’t sit easily with any of them. She narrowed her eyes at the milling crowd below. “What’s that symbol on their jackets? The one on the back.”

They all strained to see. Martin pushed his glasses up with his thumb.

“Circle… four points around it.”

“Is that some Blackwing shit?!” Vogel gave a muted yelp of anger. Clean graphic design was a major point of suspicion with the Rowdies. 

“Could be. Has that smell about it.”

“They look pretty anti-gov to me,” Amanda mused. “But who can tell these days.”

The crowd coalesced around a single man. Even from far away she could see that he was huge, at least a head taller than everyone else. He was fair-haired, with broad shoulders and a wide neck. He looked like the type of guy you saw on the cover of bodybuilding magazines - muscled to the point of being unnerving. Clad in olive green fatigues, he had the vibe of an upstart military dictator, with the miniature army to match. He climbed up on the side of a Jeep and faced the crowd.

“Brothers!” His voice echoed through the creekbed.

“Thank you all for joining me today. And really, you ought to thank yourselves. You are all part of the Universe’ Great Plan, now.”

The man pointed at the crowd, sweeping his arm in a motion that encompassed the whole area.

“Too long has the Great State of Louisiana permitted the moral corruption of New Orleans. Witchcraft. Deviancy. It is a cancer in the heart of our land. But no longer.”

“Did we just time travel to the 18th century?” Amanda whispered in disbelief.

The unfriendly giant was getting into the meat of his rhetoric, adding some more hand gestures and increasing his volume. “The days of the Witch draw to a close. Soon, we will purify the darkness. Soon, we will take back our city.”

“Athos! _Athos!_ **_Athos!_** ” the crowd chanted. Their voices made Amanda’s hair stand on end. Next to her Martin was growling, low in his throat.

“Our first order of business is at hand. Take to the streets, Brothers. We must find him. We must not fail... to Kill! Dirk! Gently!”

His audience erupted in cheers.

“Let's get out of here,” Amanda mumbled.

With a muttered chorus of _lets go let's go_ they hurried back to the van, double-time. Gripps collected up all the spray paint cans into a beat up cardboard box with nimble hands and loaded it into the back before Martin even turned the key. Amanda buckled her seatbelt and winced.  
Her heart was racing at what felt like a thousand beats per minute. The lion roar of the engine and the pulse of the radio were a minor balm, but not enough to quell the sick feeling of panic. The rush of her own blood in her ears was starting to drown out all other sensations. She touched her temples, feeling her body sway as the van careened onto the road at top speed. She could hear the Rowdies barking at each other about bikes following, but the pararibulitis was an oncoming train, impossible to ignore.

Martin gunned it, kicking up dirt. He could feel the Oh No van around them like it was an extension of himself, a warlock’s familiar - the metal beast that growled and stalked. And now it was time to _sprint_.

“Three behind us,” Cross spat.

“Must Have Been Waiting,” Gripps punched the floor. Vogel growled.

“We’ll lose ‘em,” Martin drawled. He made a hard turn and reached for Amanda’s leg. She was starting to shake with the effort of holding in an attack. “Let it come, Drummer girl. We got you. Boys! Projectiles!”

The Rowdies cracked open the back doors, letting in the sound of motors. They flung spray cans with great accuracy, forcing the bikers to weave and occasionally making contact with their heads. The three jackasses on their tail drew handguns, and soon the van doors were ringing with bouncing bullets. Mortal weapons didn’t do much against a cosmic vehicle, but it wasn’t making the drive any easier.

Martin inhaled the air whipping in through the windows. He could trace the roads this way, follow the trails of energy that led to the city. His eyes saw the road ahead and their assailants in the mirror, while the deeper part of him felt a hundred blue lines of light converging ahead in New Orleans - a place that read like a supernova of emotion. They were flying towards it at breakneck speed. Next to him, Drummer’s panic was flowing like a pot boiling over.

Amanda had looked down to see her own wand poking through her chest. She held in a sob. Not real. Not real. But it didn’t matter - it _felt_ real. The wand she touched with shaking fingers felt like wood, the warm liquid seeping into her torn shirt felt like blood, smelled like it too… and almost as an afterthought, the pain set in. She’d been stabbed. She wouldn’t survive - yes, of course she would, because this _wasn’t real_ \- she wasn’t feeling the pain of a stab wound, she was feeling what her mind supplied as a proxy. Her nerves were confused. She started to cry, feeling it consume her no matter how hard she tried to remember Wakti’s words and Martin’s touch.

“ _Vogel,_ ” the first traces of real tension bled into Martin’s voice. He was gripping her thigh with one hand and the wheel with the other, trying to take some of the pain, but it was too many tasks at once.

His brother caught his meaning right away, coming over to grasp Drummer’s shoulders and leech away the hallucinations.

“Doors closed!” Martin barked. When he heard them slam he made a hard u-turn that would have flipped a lesser vehicle. Everything in the van, Rowdies included, slid to the opposite wall. All three bikers swerved and were launched off the road, taking the Universe on the chin.  
They straightened out, taking an on-ramp to Route 10 and leaving nothing but dust.

After ten minutes of aggressive speeding, Martin pulled off to the shoulder so they could regroup.

Amanda was sweating profusely. She tried to pull her hair up off her neck but the post-attack tremors were too strong. Without a word, Gripps took the tie from her hand and made a ponytail for her. She felt her love and appreciation for them all sitting in her heart like a heavy stone. It was too much to ever explain.

“Can you take a little more?” she asked them, annoyed at how weak her voice sounded.

Martin took her hand. Vogel and Gripps touched her shoulders. Cross laid his large hand on the top of her head, where it felt like a paw. In silence they took the last of the fear and exhaustion away, leaving her cool and stilled. She opened her eyes at the last second to see the ephemeral blue light wick off of her skin and into Martin’s mouth while he watched her face.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks for the treat,” Vogel patted her. “That was like old times for a minute, huh? When it was just you and me. Man, that time _sucked!_ ”

“Seriously,” she grunted. “Sorry. That was a rough one.”

Martin rubbed her wrist with his thumb. 

“Don’t apologize.”

“Seems like we found what we were waiting for, at least. I need to call Dirk.”

Martin switched the engine back on and rolled out into traffic at a more relaxed version of top speed.

Dirk answered on the first ring.

“ _Amanda!_ Lovely to hear from you!”

“Hi Dirk,” she couldn’t help but smile. “Remember how Todd told me to stay away from New Orleans?”

“You're coming here, aren't you?”

“We’ll be in the city any minute.”

“Excellent. I’ll text you our hotel address. Todd will be so pleased, after the initial fussing.”


	2. Chapter 2

Amanda hugged Farah for a full minute, Todd and Dirk for almost as long.

“Todd,” she said, holding him in a firm embrace, “The mustache. Why.”

Her brother lifted a hand from her back to touch his face. He had let his wispy unshaven look blossom, for better or for much worse, into a defined half-moon above his lip.

“It’s a disguise! I mean, it’s real, but that’s why I grew it. What, you don’t like it?”

“No one likes it,” Farah said. Her words had the ring of truth.

Todd deflated. “I’ll shave soon. When the case is over.”

Vogel was admiring Dirk’s jacket without much regard for the human inside it, opening it to check the lining color. Dirk looked uncomfortable but determined to roll with it.

“Another reason to get moving on it. So, Amanda, you saw Athos and his merry men. How was that?”

“They said they wanted to kill you.”

“Well, it’s a popular pastime, enjoyed by people of all backgrounds.”

“So who the hell are they?”

“Name sounded familiar,” Martin muttered. He was perched on a dresser, lighting a cigarette in clear violation of hotel policy. It was the first thing any of the Rowdy 3 had said since arriving. They had all given more or less friendly grunts to Dirk and Co. upon entering the hotel room, and were now milling around picking things up and replacing them with reluctant gentleness. 

“ _Athos,_ ” he pronounced with deliberation, letting the smoke escape with the syllables.

“A Mountain In Greece,” Gripps said, lifting a framed print off the wall and looking behind it.

“Tch,” Cross shook his head. “Terrible economy.”

“Well, and here’s the really interesting thing,” Dirk sat on the bed and crossed his legs. “Turns out he was in Blackwing with us in the bad old days.”

“No shit?”

“Knew it!” Cross’ voice now came from the bathroom. Amanda heard the shower curtain being pushed around.

“He’s known for being incredibly strong. Insanely so. Like, he could bend most metals and punch through all kinds of materials,” Dirk made a series of illustrative hand gestures. “So Blackwing always had a hard time keeping him locked up.”

“How did they manage it, then?” Farah frowned.

“No idea. Diamond… cage bars? Something very hard, at any rate.”

Amanda shook her head. “What are you guys even doing down here? Isn't the new office set up back home?”

“It is, and it’s lovely. Absolutely can’t wait to have you over to see it. Provided I survive this case, and am not pulled apart by the bare hands of a maniac.”

“Dirk got hired by a local from here,” Farah took one of her bras out of Vogel’s hands and zipped her suitcase with a reproachful gesture. “A keyboardist. He wanted us to recover his stolen property. Now we can’t even find him, so we’re actually worse off than when we started… it doesn’t sound great when I explain it like that.”

Todd clapped his hands together, looking nervous. Amanda noticed that he kept throwing weird looks at Martin. “Okay, let’s go over what we have so far. Athos is a super strong charismatic lunatic who escaped from Blackwing when the rest of you did. He’s recruited a neo nazi biker gang as his followers by promising them some sort of ‘cleansed’ New Orleans -”

“Not worrying at all, _no_ historical precedent for that being any sort of problem,” Dirk added.

“He knows we’re here and interfering with his plans, and he wants Dirk dead. We’ve got a missing painting, a missing client, we can't seem to get an appointment with the one woman who seems like a promising lead-”

“We did get tickets to the Halloween ball,” Farah interjected.

“Yeah, and you had to impersonate a police officer to get even those.”

“I did _not_ impersonate an officer.”

“Not technically, but you did let them assume you were undercover.”

“It's not my job to correct people’s assumptions,” she shrugged, looking pleased.

“Halloween Ball?” A sneaky smile spread across Amanda’s face. “I like the sound of that.”

“You should, it’s quite the thing. It’s hosted by the most famous Vodou practitioner in the city. Miss Acadia Dubois. She’s very busy, and popular, and she won’t, exactly, agree to see us,” Dirk flopped back on the bed.

“All we could get ahold of was some priest guy that Dirk talked to on the phone. He’s like her cousin, or… frenemy, or something.”

“Arch-rival, I think. But in a professional way. Say, Amanda,” Dirk sat up again, shining like a lightbulb. “Why don’t _you_ go to see the Bokor. You both do magic… things.... So I have a feeling you’ll have lots to talk about.”

“Bokor?”

“Yes, his name is Antoine,” Dirk smiled with encouragement, like he had just introduced two preschoolers on a playground.

“What is a Bokor?” Farah asked. She did that scrunchy face that Amanda always thought was cute.

“According,” Dirk raised a finger and glanced at his phone screen, “to the all-knowing internet, a Bokor is a Vodou practitioner who deals with both good _and_ bad spirits. A well-rounded individual. That last part is my own commentary. Can I add that to Wikipedia, Todd?”

Amanda scratched some polish off her nail. “Yeah, I can do that, if you think it’ll help. What exactly am I supposed to be asking him?”

Dirk tapped his chin. “See if he knows anything about a Tolouse-Lautrec painting of a dog. In oils.”

“...Really?”

“I think I should go do some more digging on Athos,” Farah said. She stretched and patted the holster on her hip.

“Maybe you should take the Rowdy 3 with you! As backup. They are great backup,” Dirk gave Gripps a thumb-up and was ignored.

“We go with Drummer,” Martin stood up and put out his cigarette in someone’s water cup. “Things don’t go so well when we get seperated.”

“Fine, fine. Todd and I can go check out Miss Dubois’ house. Or her garden, if we get denied entry. Again. Excellent planning session, everyone.”

“Hey, guys, I’m going to borrow my sister for a second,” Todd grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway, looking at the Rowdies with a frown.

Martin raised his eyebrows at her.

“Yeah, go on, I’ll be right there,” she told him.

Her boys left, brushing past Todd more than necessary. On his way out Vogel picked up a paperweight and mimed throwing it against the wall. He laughed hysterically when Dirk flinched.

“Amanda, are you…”

“What? _What,_ Todd?” Amanda pretended to strangle him. “You are being so weird.”

“Are you with the blonde one, now? I mean, are you two _together_? He seems to be touching you way more than necessary. And I think I saw you kissing outside.”

“His name is Martin. There are only four of them, you seriously can’t remember any of their names?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Is that a problem?” She felt her sass rising to dangerous levels.

“They wrecked my apartment, Amanda! _He_ wrecked my apartment!”

“Oh, that was forever ago!”

“It was _this year!_ ”

They were in full sibling fight mode, and Amanda had to recognize it. She took a calming breath.

“Todd, if your apartment never got wrecked, you wouldn’t have helped Dirk. You would still be living there, paying rent to that crackhead and probably working at Taco Bell.”

“I… what? Taco Bell?”

“Fine, the Holiday Inn Express. Is that what you want?”

Todd huffed and crossed his arms. His arms had actually started the conversation crossed, but he managed to re-cross them even harder.

“Well, you might have something there. It still doesn’t make me thrilled that after months apart I get to find out you’re dating the guy that destroyed all of my stuff, and punched Dirk -”

“Hey, I’ve heard this story, and Dirk punched him first-”

“Yeah, regardless- I wasn’t crazy about you living with these guys, and now you’re in a relationship with one of them. I mean, Jesus, Amanda, you could have called and told me.”

Todd had pivoted to guilt tripping and it was like being clotheslined on a bicycle. Amanda gulped. Her brother’s eyes were doing that puppy thing. If she held up her finger and blocked out his mustache the effect was even stronger.

“I’m sorry. I just… I’ve been way worse at communicating lately. I feel like my phone is always dead, and honestly I don’t even know why it still works. I haven’t been paying the bills on it.”

“It works because _I’ve_ been paying the bill, you doofus.”

“I- what? Really?”

“Yeah. What, you thought it was some big, supernatural, universe thing? It was me. Your favorite brother, remember him? I just want to still be able to reach you.”

Amanda sighed and folded her brother in another hug, admitting defeat. “Sorry. That’s really nice of you. I’ll call more. And maybe we can start over on the introductions with Martin, when things are less intense.”

“Martin, right.”

“You’ll remember to call him by his name, now?”

Todd paused. “You know, he kind of picked up my entire body by my face once.”

“I was there. He was saving you from a fire.”

“Hm. Can’t argue with that.”

 

They were parked across the street from Shorty Cutz Salon.

Amanda held up the business card Dirk had given her so that it lined up under the sign. 

_Antoine Dubois. Shorty Cutz Salon. Spiritual Work Tues - Sat._

The engine was off, and all five of them were rendered silent by Deep Skepticism.

“It checks out, I guess,” Amanda popped her door open.

“Is this where the witch guy lives?” Vogel yawned.

“It’s Where He Cuts People’s Hair. For Money.”

Cross patted Vogel on the back. “You could use a trim.”

“It’s okay, guys. I’ll go in alone,” Amanda said.

“You sure?” Martin raised his eyebrows at the building.

She swallowed and nodded. “It’d be better not to startle him. Them. Whoever is inside.”

He looked unconvinced, but bowed to her wishes. “We’ll be here.”

The bell jingled on the door as she entered a single room lined with a few sinks. A stand-up oscillating fan was blowing, competing with the hip-hop on the radio. The whole place was empty except for a large white woman with heavy eye makeup sitting near the mirrors. She was smoking what looked a lot like a joint and getting her hair curled by a willowy black man. The latter looked Amanda up and down with a none-too-impressed expression.

“You look like a girl that cuts her own bangs.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” her fingers twitched, but she didn’t let herself touch her hair.

He turned back to his client’s curls. “What do you need, then? Blow dry?”

“I’m here to see the Bokor.”

“Ain’t no Bokor here for you, girl,” the woman piped up. 

Amanda bit her tongue to stop the _no one asked you, Bitch._ She glanced back out the front window. Vogel was jumping up and down on the hood of a parked car, making the alarm go off. Martin was flicking his lighter open and closed, looking at her through the backwards store lettering. She gave him an ambivalent expression and turned back around.

“I’m here to see Antoine,” she clarified, more resolved than ever. “Dirk Gently sent me.”

They stared at her. The man let a section of hair fall from his hand, and then switched off the curler with an audible snap.

“Ah.”

Amanda stepped farther forward. With brief hesitation, she pulled the black Apprentice wand out of her jacket and held it out, palm up. There was a moment of mutual examination. She felt like he looked pretty ordinary for a practitioner of Vodou- then realized he might be the first one she’d ever met. His tailored black clothing and salon apron belied the worn-down appearance of his shop.

“I am Antoine,” he said, when he was satisfied with however Amanda appeared to him. “Come this way.”

He left the woman with a half-curled head and walked towards a door in the back. She didn’t look too upset, only blew smoke in Amanda’s direction as she passed.

“She will share with you, if you ask nicely,” he said, jerking a thumb at the woman.

“No thanks.”

“I’m surprised.” 

“I used to smoke pretty often,” Amanda admitted, smiling at the memory. “It helped with my nerve disease.”

They entered a darkened room with small windows. For some reason she felt compelled to share more.

“I also didn’t have a lot else going on, you know, in general. Now I don’t want to stop my attacks… I mean, they suck, a _lot_ , but -”

“They feed your powers,” Antoine struck a match and cupped it in his hand, carrying it to a cluster of candles. “And your friends.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I can see it. The connection between you, the flow of the energy…”

Amanda paused, taken aback. “You can see that? Even through the window? Are you… like them?”

“No. I am just a man. My rootwork lets me see things, more than most people can. But I am not like them. Or like you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know what I am. I just go along with... whatever happens.”

“You are a woman like Circe, the one who turned men into pigs. A sorceress. A _Völva_. A seer and wand-carrier.”

She held up her hands. “Whoa, let’s not use the V word.” 

“What word would you prefer?”

“How about Witchakookoo?”

“Sounds like nonsense.”

“Whatever.” Amanda looked around the back room, now illuminated by candlelight. 

Framed photos of relatives and friends crowded the purple-painted walls. Some of them appeared to be memorials. She saw rosaries and animal skulls, and dried herbs and flowers hanging from the ceiling. There were stacks of plastic tupperware bins on one side, full of books and folded fabric. A large altar took up the other side. Antoine lit a stick of incense before blowing out the match and cracking open a bottle labelled “Pineapple Big Shot”. 

“Want some?”

“No thanks.”

He poured himself a red Solo cup and deposited himself in one of two moth eaten armchairs, gesturing for her to do the same.

“So. Dirk Gently.”

Amanda was on firmer ground here. “Yeah, Dirk. So he’s a friend of yours, too?”

“Dirk Gently is a cosmic idiot. A child wandering into a warzone.”

She giggled. “He’s a detective.”

“That too. He gave me a call to say he was in town. He told me many reasons why, but I don’t think he really knows.”

“Something about a stolen painting. That’s not really my deal, though,” Amanda plucked at the edge of her armrest. She twirled the wand like a drumstick in her other hand.

“No,” Antoine took a big swig of pineapple soda. “Your deal is that you’re operating one-handed.”

“I, uh... I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re lopsided,” Antoine pointed at the wand. “Where’s the other one?”

“Who the hell has two wands?”

“You should.” 

Antoine put down his cup and leaned forward. He smiled for the first time in her company. She noticed that he had very bright teeth.

“Your energy moves up and down both arms,” he said, pointing at her heart and then moving his hands apart to trace the path. “If you had a second wand you could channel with that as well.”

“Where am I supposed to get another one? I found this.” Amanda decided not to mention where she found it.

“You make one. We can craft it right here, right now.”

Antoine pointed at the altar. There was a light of mischievous excitement in his eyes.

She had to admit it was tempting. 

“You know how to make wands?” she said, stalling while she thought.

“Your wand is a gris-gris, of sorts. A charm of empowerment. And I _know_ gris-gris, baby. It is my business.”

“I can’t pay you.”

“Consider it a favor.”

He sprang up and took the lid off the nearest tupperware, pulling out odds and ends and dropping them on the altar. A roll of greyish-white athletic tape. A clear quartz the length of her pinky. A white rod, which she lifted in her hand.

“Is this… bone?” she made a _yikes_ face.

“Whittled deer antler,” he corrected her. “We are going to do the ritual together, but it will be a little different than how I normally work. You are not my normal clientele. You are not even a normal person.”

“Thanks.”

“You are not. So we will do it your way. I will assist you, show you the path - but it is your magic we use here.”

 

Outside, Martin lifted his head to watch a helicopter pass.

“Hm,” he said. He flicked the lighter open.

A sleek black car rolled to a stop down the street. No one got out.

“Huh,” he said. He flicked the lighter closed.

Four motorcycles turned the corner, revving their engines. They pulled to a stop in front of Shorty Cutz Salon. Vogel slid off the car hood. Gripps passed a crowbar to Martin. 

Two men in suits got out of the black car, walking with purpose towards the motorcycles. Athos’ goons stretched and dismounted, appearing to ignore both other groups. They had brass glinting off their knuckles and switchblades in their pockets.

The Rowdy 3 stepped into their path with casual menace, blocking the salon door.

“Afternoon, Gentlemen,” Martin said, easy and extra Southern. He swung the crowbar in a low arc beside his leg, pacing back and forth. 

The closest biker approached him, opening his mouth to speak. Martin struck him across the jaw. 

Chaos descended, as it does.

Inside, Amanda was caught between two states of being. In one piece of reality she was celestial, weaving stars into a long needle while the universe backed up endlessly into a pattern of itself, over and over again like funhouse mirrors.

Her earthbound self heard a noise outside. Or rather, a collection of distant noises with no single source, growing louder.

“Focus,” Antoine told her, correcting her arm position above the altar. He resumed chanting. There was a tremendous crash.

The woman with the half-curled hair burst into the room, making the candles flicker. She bolted the door behind her.

“Is it okay that she’s back here during this?” Amanda’s voice came from another place. Her hand moved with mechanical purpose, wrapping the wand with tape.

“Susan is my apprentice. Keep going.”

The door splintered until it was barely holding together. Cross had just thrown a 300 lb biker into it. 

“Blow on it,” Antoine said.

She looked at him with unfocused starry eyes, distracted and uncomprehending.

“Breathe life into it,” he snapped.

She blew on the wand. In another place, overlaid with this one, silver dust and blue smoke came out of her and settled into it. Imbued with power.

The sound of tires squealing and motors revving echoed through the room. Antoine stopped chanting. Amanda bled from the other place back into this one, like an hourglass filling with sand. Her eyes returned to brown.

The door fell off its hinges of its own accord, having had enough.

The salon outside was wrecked. Most of the front window had been reduced to gravel sized chunks of glass, leaving only a few jagged pieces. There were visible tire tracks on the road outside. The Rowdies looked only a little worse for wear. Vogel was bent over, catching his breath.

“Blackwing, Boss! And more bikers!”

Martin spat blood into one of the sinks. The mirror above it was smashed from where he had slammed a man into it. “We gotta go, Drummer girl.”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely,” she turned to Antoine, who surveyed the destruction without much concern. “What I was trying to say earlier was that I’m not worried about the painting, I’m worried about this shit.”

“It is all coming to a head soon. You are properly prepared, now,” he actually seemed more satisfied than anything. Susan had grabbed a salon broom and was pushing it around the floor. “These men have been here before, looking for my cousin.”

“Acadia Dubois?”

“Yes. What kind of painting did you say it was?”

“Um, a dog?”

“Oh. Yes. I am sure she has it.”

 

The Oh No van crawled down a street in the garden district, rocking on its tires to the Ramones. Cross followed behind on the stolen motorcycle they all wanted to play with later. House after passing house served up easter egg paint jobs and sugar spun filigrees, framed by delicate ironwork and heavy-hanging greenery. And then there were Dirk and Todd, clinging to a drainpipe on the side of a particularly elegant house.

Martin slowed to a halt. The van snarled. Amanda pulled herself half out of the passenger window and put her elbows on the roof.

“Are you guys all right?”

“Yes! Thank you!”

“Yeah, we’re done here,” Todd sighed.

“Do you need a hand?”

Dirk offered a pained smile. “Um…”

A rented mini cooper with bullet holes in its side turned the corner and parked behind Cross. Farah got out, wearing a baseball cap.

“Hi Farah.”

“Hey. I found out where Athos has been hiding out and stockpiling weapons. It’s a warehouse on Lake Pontchartrain. Also, Blackwing is crawling all over this city. They seem to be really interested in him instead of us, which feels.. Weird.”

“I got two wands now,” Amanda held them aloft.

“Great. That’s all great,” Dirk’s arms were starting to shake with the effort of not falling into the bushes below.

“Oh!” Farah reached in her bomber jacket and pulled out a stack of envelopes. “I got us five more tickets to the Halloween Ball.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Dirk & Co are staying at a place just like the Hotel Provincial in the French Quarter.  
> -The musical atmosphere of choice for this chapter is the _Crypt of the Necrodancer_ soundtrack by Danny Baranowsky. The song “Crypteque” is playing at the Halloween Ball. If you want a fun multimedia experience, give it a listen during that part.

In the electric dark of Mischief Night, Amanda and Martin sat on the cement steps leading down to the Bayou St. John. The boys were running amok on the street behind them, egging cars and unspooling toilet paper into the low branches of trees. In the spirit of a holiday where everyone became a little Rowdy-ish, their antics bordered on wholesome.

Amanda looked over at her companion. Martin was leaning back and letting the moonlight play over his face. He looked peaceful, surprisingly so, for he was a man who had broken the side mirrors of two police cruisers in the past half hour.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” she prodded, gently. He had walked their pack through the French Quarter and the Seventh Ward, maybe not _pointing things out_ , per se, but taking them on a meandering route that skirted too many interesting sights to be accidental. They had stopped in a few bars, too, where live music was playing and the snacks were regional and exciting.

He smiled in her direction and tugged on her ponytail, light and playful. “Been here a few times, yeah.”

She could tell the Rowdy was feeling his drinks. He always smiled more easily and touched her hair more often. It was good to see him unwound, not having to drive or anticipate any fights for a few hours. Farah had tapped into a police scanner frequency to monitor Athos’ warehouse hideout by proxy from their hotel room. She kept them updated via text, and so far everything was quiet.

Amanda sipped the cheerful to-go cup of long island iced tea that Cross had bought for her many blocks ago. There were cherries and lemon wedges bobbing in it. It was great travelling with boys who could either intimidate (Martin, Cross) or shout (Vogel, Gripps) their way to the front of a bar crowd and get her whatever festive potion she wanted.

She chased an ice cube with her straw, choosing her next words with care. As a general policy, she avoided asking the Rowdies about their lives before Blackwing. She didn’t want to stir up bad memories or open old wounds. Still, it would be nice to know…

Martin breathed in, tasting the air. He looked at her sideways, sensing some trepidation. 

“Hmm?”

“Are you… from here? Is this where you grew up?”

He drew her closer and kissed her ear, quashing her anxiety. “No. Savannah.”

“Oh, wow.” Amanda sucked up some of her drink so she could hide her pleased expression.

She was surprised when he continued, his voice rumbling close to her head.

“Used to come down here with my ma, some summers. We would stay at the RV park near the highway.”

“You guys had an RV?”

“1979 Dodge Swinger. Only home I ever known,” he sing-songed, tickling her chin with the end of her ponytail. He released it and rested his hand on her knee, his other arm fixed around her waist. 

“You’re like a born traveller, then.” 

“Somethin’ like that.”

“You know that I never really went many places before you met me. We went to Disneyworld once, when I was little. My folks aren’t super big on travel... and then I wasn’t in the condition to do it myself.”

She snuggled into his side. The night air was cool enough to fully enjoy another person’s warmth. Martin was all for it. He seemed to be trying to fold her into himself. He rested his chin on her head, keeping most of the weight off. 

“What’s it like, livin’ in a house?”

She snorted. “Overrated.”

“Huh,” he sounded almost disappointed, so she amended her statement.

“I mean, sure, it’s nice. I liked my house growing up, with my family. It’s not super nice when you live in one by yourself.” Amanda thought of her years spent holed up alone, stuck in a haze of fear and illness and self-numbing.

“Never gonna have to live like that again,” Martin said, so soft she almost didn’t hear.

Footsteps pattered on the sidewalk in their direction.

“Boss! Martin! There’s a parade down the street and they’re lighting shit on fire!!”

There was, in fact, a small parade, and it involved several fire dancers and lots of drumming. Martin and Amanda joined their little Rowdy pack and walked with the revelers.

“I used to have one of those when I was a kid!” she pointed at some of the locals who carried bodhráns, flat Irish frame drums.

After a few minutes of wistful looks, the nearest drummer passed his bodhrán and tipper over to her. She took it up and caught the beat of the procession, her hand moving fast enough to blur. The Rowdies danced in the light of spinning flames like enchanted dogs from the realm of fae, here in the form of men for only a night.

When they all grew tired of causing festive mischief they returned to sleep in Dirk’s hotel room. Farah and Amanda shared the bed and all six boys shared the floor. There was much moaning about this arrangement, most of it from Dirk. Sleep won out in the end. 

Amanda woke up in the darkest part of the early morning, feeling calm. No nightmares tonight. The window was open and a breeze was blowing in, stirring the curtains. Farah’s beautiful face was resting on the pillow beside hers, carefree in sleep. She turned in the sheets to lean over Martin, lying on the floor closest to the bed.

He had no blanket, and only a small brocade cushion tucked under his head. One of his arms was bent up under it, the other resting across his chest. He looked as relaxed as a person sunning on a beach.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

His eyes opened, pale in the dark. “Usually.”

She smiled at him and reached down to squeeze his hand. “Happy Halloween.”

He gave her another rare smile in return and kissed her hand before pressing it to his heart.

“Happy Halloween, Drummer girl.”

They woke up late. Dirk, Todd, and Farah had already left, with a note explaining that they were going to the police precinct. Amanda read it out loud and they all went back to sleep piled on the bed. Around noon they took turns in long showers until the all hot water was gone, leaving their towels draped across every surface of the room. Cross and Gripps went and rode the stolen motorcycle up and down the street while Amanda and Vogel blow-dried their hair, and each other, in a mirror that constantly fogged up from Martin’s ongoing shower. After enough surprise blow drier attacks they both managed to give the other a wild haystack look before Martin kicked them out. 

In what _they_ considered a timely manner they left the hotel, stopping for beignets and coffee and walking around Congo Square. Cross high-fived trick-or-treaters with particularly cool halloween costumes.

Dirk called Amanda. She answered with a mouth full of beignet.

“Mph?”

“Hiii! Can you hear me? It’s a bit windy. I’m out here with Farah. Todd is actually over there on a boat right now, I can see him… yes, hi Todd! You’re doing splendid! No, don’t turn around! Sorry Amanda. We are in the absolute _thick_ of it right now. Looks like Athos is planning some type of grand showdown with Acadia Dubois tonight. We warned her, but she doesn’t seem to care very much.”

“Todd’s on a boat?”

“Yes, sort of a kayak situation. We’re at Lake Pontchartrain. Good news is, we may have found our missing client! He’s being held hostage.”

Amanda’s eyelids fluttered. The swings in Dirk’s inflection gave her whiplash sometimes. 

“I actually called to let you know we’ll be meeting you at the party later, because this doesn’t show any signs of wrapping up quickly. Also, Antoine asked me for your phone number, so I gave it to him.”

“Ohhkay. Are you guys all right?”

“So far so good! See you tonight!”

Her phone pinged at the same time as Dirk hung up. It was Antoine, asking them to stop by the salon to get ready for the ball. It seemed he was also planning on attending his cousin’s party, despite his professional disdain for her services. He asked Amanda to bring her friends inside this time, saying he had things they could wear.

Shorty Cutz was closed for business, with a large panel of pine nailed up where the front window used to be. The front door was missing. Gripps reached up and rang the bell with his hand as they stepped over caution tape.

The Bokor himself greeted them in a feathered collar and a silk top hat, tilted at a rakish angle over kohl-rimmed eyes. He seemed to be in a great mood for someone with a destroyed business.

“Are you worried about not having a door?” Amanda asked him. Susan waved from the back, decked out in what had to be an interpretation of Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra.

“No one will take advantage,” Antoine gave his bright sinister smile. “People know who I am.”

It turned out that many of the boxes in Antoine’s back room were full of costume pieces, all of impressive quality. Many of them had come from local theater and dance productions. Susan, who doubled as an aspiring cosmetologist as well as Antoine’s apprentice, applied a “mask” of blood red shadow in a band across all of their eyes to fit the masquerade theme. Amanda dug through the bins and picked out a classic short black satin witch dress, with cartoonish tattered sleeves and hem. She kept her boots on over thigh-high fishnet stockings and added some black lipstick. The best part of the ensemble was how she could keep her wands in the bands of her stockings. It looked like it was just another part of her costume.

She stepped out of the bathroom as the boys were leaving the back room. Gripps wore a Marquis de Lafayette-style jacket, with gold epaulettes and a grand hat covered in ostrich feathers. Cross had chosen a pirate king costume with a red velvet coat and tall boots. Vogel was transformed into a rockabilly angel, with big white wings strapped to his back and glitter in his hair. Martin had gone full Vampire Prince in a silver-edged black coat and realistic resin fangs. Amanda could tell he had amused himself with the choice.

“You look really hot.” She told him truthfully, barely containing a laugh at herself. 

He shrugged a shoulder, looking pleased. “Just a bad joke.”

“If you think that’s bad, wait until you see my witch hat,” Amanda fitted it onto her head. It was huge, pointy, and glorious.

“Cute as fuck,” Martin declared. The other Rowdies _mm-hmm_ ed in agreement.

She laughed and twirled her wands. “Seriously, you all look so cool. I wish we were just going to this party for fun.”

“It’s always fun, Drummer girl.”

Cross cracked his knuckles. “Yeah, what’s a party without a little rumble?”

 

Acadia Dubois’ annual Halloween Ball was held at the French House, a decommissioned opera venue with tall windows and a facade that curved around the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse Streets. In Amanda’s opinion, the place had a definite eerie vibe. There was a shimmer of unreality to the walls, made more pronounced by the flicker of gaslights. Music spilled out into the street from the open double doors.

Antoine pulled up behind them in a vintage mercedes. He had added a silver half-skull mask, white gloves, and a walking cane to his ensemble. Susan wore an elaborate mask shaped like a scarab. They waved to the Rowdy 3 with great dignity and made their own way within.

Inside the French House was even more strange and wonderful. The faded golden-age lobby had a high ceiling painted with angels swimming through chipping cloud banks. There were hanging glass lights in the shape of trumpet lilies, heavy velvet curtains, and an encrustment of dusty gold baroque moulding over every surface. A man in a hyper-realistic satyr costume scanned their ticket and lifted a tasseled rope for them to pass.

They filtered into the main theater, carried by the tide of incoming guests. Amanda’s mouth fell open.

“Whoa.”

“This place is mad cool!” Vogel’s wings twitched.

“I Like It!” Gripps’ eyes were wide. “Actually, I Love It!”

“Now _this_ is a party,” Cross said with approval, tilting his finger like a gun. A passing girl stroked his shoulder and giggled, disappearing into the crowd.

The decaying ballroom was illuminated by a massive crystal chandelier. In Amanda’s best estimate, it was a thousand degrees inside and packed with about a million people. Every costume outdid the last - the whole dancefloor was one huge, unfocused parade, with floats and mummers, courtesans and goblins. Hundreds of party-goers crowded the main floor and the four layered tiers of what used to be opera seats. The stage was taken over by a sprawling band, including a set of bongo drums and an antique organ.

“This place is fancy as hell.” Amanda took two champagne flutes from a passing tray. The boys did the same and _cheers_ ’d her. All five of them downed their first glasses and got started on their second. Martin caught her eye and licked his fangs a little too deliberately.

“Stop that,” she grumbled, giving his side a gentle punch. He pretended to wince in pain. “This is a family event.”

“Ain’t nothin’ of the kind, Drummer girl.”

“Evening, Rowdies-All!” a cheerful wizard hailed them. 

“Dirk?” Amanda squinted. The holistic goofball was wearing the cheapest white plastic beard money could buy, a cone-shaped hat and a star-spangled cloak. A beautiful masked woman in a Marie Antoinette gown and wig turned around, revealing herself as Farah. The diminutive ghost behind her waved. It was Todd, wearing a hotel sheet with eye holes cut out. 

“Heya,” he said.

“Nice costume,” Amanda snorted.

“You got champagne? Where is there champagne?”

Farah sidled up as much as one can in a hoop skirt.

“Something’s not right here,” she whispered to Amanda. “There’s something... _off_ about this crowd.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” she scanned the room. It was like looking through a kaleidoscope of monsters. “Honestly, it all looks pretty unusual.”

“Who’s that?” Vogel gulped champagne and pointed to the front of the room. A tall, dark-skinned woman wearing a gorgeous replica of the gown and star crown from the tarot card _The Empress_ was standing in a circle of admirers.

“Oh, that’s Acadia,” Dirk said, giving her a fond glance. “Never did get into her house.”

Their little group spent a couple of hours in uneasy enjoyment, watching strange performances on the stage by magicians and dancers. Most of the guests ignored the entertainment, dancing with one another or vying for a chance to meet Miss Dubois. Amanda saw Antoine and Susan filter by a few times, and traced their movement up from tier to tier until they were just a glimmer above.

Maybe it was the tension of waiting, the heat of the room, or the unfamiliar sensation of multiple glasses of champagne, but Amanda felt like the edges of her vision were going dark. The costumes of strangers around her looked more sinister, their eyes more hungry within their masks. A cloaked reveler with tangled auburn hair and a fox mask stared at her every time she looked back.

“Tastes strange in here,” Martin growled under his breath, drawing nods of agreement from everyone.

The nearest wall burst in with a shower of plaster.


	4. Chapter 4

In a sluggish response, Amanda thought there had been a small explosion until Athos stepped through the rubble. She realized he had somehow just _pushed_ his way in from the street. 

“You,” he grunted, lunging forward and grasping at Dirk’s fake beard. For years afterward, everyone would remark on how extraordinarily bad his luck had been that night. Of all the walls, in a grand old opera house with _many_ walls, it was the one closest to Dirk that had to be burst in through. 

“Not me!” Dirk squeaked, dodging away. The beard tore off and remained in Athos’ hand.

There was a confusion of bodies as Todd and Amanda leapt forward to help their friend. They were followed closely by Farah, trying to save her Todd, and Martin, trying to save his Drummer, and the remaining Rowdies trying to save their Boss and their Martin. 

The ensuing tumult was enough to let Dirk escape. Todd pulled the air gun out, ripping off his ghost sheet. He blew a strong gust at Athos, enough to knock anyone else off their feet. The giant shrugged it off as if it were a light summer breeze.

Amanda flung bolts of stunning light from both of her wands. They sizzled against Athos’ skin but didn’t have any noticeable effect on his trajectory. He reached out and pushed both Brotzmans to the floor in a way that was undignified and also happened to hurt quite a lot. Amanda felt like she’d had an anvil dropped on her.

Martin and Farah reached him at the same time, throwing blows to his back and front. Farah moved like clockwork. Every strike was cold and calculated, the result of years of training and dedication. Martin just fought dirty, the backstreet brawler to her jedi knight. He grasped Athos’ neck from behind, dragging him down with all of his weight and digging his hand into the giant’s eyes. It looked like he was about to rip into Athos’ throat with his teeth.

Against any other opponent Farah and Martin’s combined forces would have been deadly. Athos tossed them both aside like dolls, looking aggravated. 

Martin staggered upright as his brothers joined him. Together they leaned forward and breathed in, pulling at the giant with unseen hands.

It was like trying to drink through a broken straw - they got nothing back but air. Vogel almost strained himself with the effort before the others pulled him away.

“Something Wrong With His Skin!”

“It’s too tough!” Cross’ eyes were wild. “He’s like a bad chicken!”

Vogel groaned. Martin massaged his jaw, glowering.

“Where’s the Conjurer?” Athos bellowed, knocking another guest to the floor.

All around them, guests were screaming and scattering, pushing each other over in their panic. The center of the room was clearing out, leaving Acadia Dubois standing alone. She tilted her chin up, unbothered. 

Athos knocked over a few more intervening guests before he slowed to a halt in front of his target. He loomed over her, grinning too close to her face.

“Where’s your dark magic now, Witch?”

“You were expecting some tricks? Sparks and flashes? It doesn’t work that way. I am a _healer_.” Acadia’s soft Haitian-accented voice carried over the crowd. She looked at Athos like he was a bug she would love to step on. She still held a flute of champagne in her hand.

“Somebody ask for a witch?” Amanda grunted. She pulled herself up onto her knees and lifted both of her wands. With a motion that would do John Bonham proud, she brought them both crashing to the floor.

For everyone else in the ballroom, lightning struck indoors. 

For Amanda, time slowed enough to feel the moment when the crystal points touched the ground and ripped white electricity from her arms. She saw the energy snake to opposite walls and travel up, meeting again in the center of the ornate ceiling. A fuse blew, sending out a shower of sparks and dropping the chandelier down, down, down past all four tiers of onlookers. Hundreds of tiny electric lights between the crystals winked out as it fell, a galaxy of dying stars.

With the sound one might associate with one galaxy crashing into another, the chandelier collapsed on Athos.

For a few moments there was only silence. Hundreds of people leaned forward to watch as the last wayward crystal rolled to a stop on the marble floor. 

Then the heap of broken glass and metal moved with a horrible squeal, and the unwelcome figure of Athos tore out from underneath. He looked no worse than he had before, though his olive fatigues were now torn and singed. If one was being generous to our heroes, one might say he looked a bit stunned.

Acadia Dubois was still standing next to him, drink in hand, mouth curled in disgust.

“Sparks and flashes,” Athos spat. “Nice try.”

As he reached for her, dozens of guns sprang up around them and trained on his head. There was a chorus of safety-off clicks. More guests on every tier pulled off costumes to reveal their navy blue police uniforms.

“NOPD! Freeze!” the closest officer barked.

In response, an equal amount of people pulled off their costumes and drew guns of their own. It was the biker gang, scattered throughout the crowd. 

It was a standoff of epic and confusing proportions.

“Looks like nobody’s doing what you want us to,” Athos said, smug.

“Nobody move!” A third set of armed individuals revealed themselves, costumes falling to the floor. There were more of them than police officers and gang members combined, and they had _much_ larger guns. “This site is in lockdown!”

Now that the music had stopped and most people were too scared to scream, Amanda could make out the sound of Blackwing helicopters circling the opera house. The cold hand of fear closed around her heart. She nodded at Martin and the others, slinking back into the press of bodies and hoping they could stay out of sight. Martin took her hand and they started backing towards an exit.

The cloaked fox stepped past Amanda, pushing back her mask. It was a woman with wild hair and huge eyes. She drew a gun out of her belt.

“‘Scuse me,” Bart grunted, wrestling past a crying woman. She walked over the tangle of crystal and wire and grabbed Athos by the collar, knocking into Acadia Dubois’ elbow and splashing her fancy drink right in the giant’s face. Sputtering, he moved to grapple the assassin and missed. 

Bart fired on Athos at point-blank range.

The sound of the gun’s discharge died away. He lifted his head to laugh at her.

“Bullets can’t hurt me, you- you- shhpp…” his laughter was turning to gagging. Spit bubbled at the corners of his mouth, growing worse until foam poured down his chin. He was choking.

“Poison can, I guess.” Bart let go. Athos dropped to the floor, twitching. She turned to Acadia with mild surprise. “You were drinkin’ poison?”

“I was told I might be in danger tonight. I had it just in case,” Acadia sniffed. 

Athos’ body stopped twitching. His biker gang followers were unprepared for anything of the sort, and had no plan of action. They stared in dumb horror until the NOPD officers began rounding them up. The noise level in the room was starting to rise again.

A dark-skinned man in a crisp suit and wired earpiece strode up to the scene in the ballroom’s center. Blackwing agents cleared a path. He was the first person Amanda had seen inside without any attempt at a costume. He halted at the giant’s body.

“Bart!” Ken gripped his forehead. “Oh no, no, no. You killed him!”

“Yeah.”

“The point of this mission was to _apprehend_ him.”

The holistic assassin shrugged. “I was suppos’d to kill him eventually. Why wait?”

“Can we get the hell out of here now?! Where is Dirk?” Todd hissed and pulled on Amanda’s arm. They had managed to inch their way back to a door. Farah was covering them, gun up, and the Rowdy 3 formed a moving protective circle.

“Hullo,” Dirk popped his head around the door, moving aside the tasselled rope. He had a flat, rectangular package tucked under his arm, wrapped in brown paper. “Come along, we haven’t got much time!”

They bolted, saving the questions _where the fuck have you been_ and _what just happened _for the ride home. Cross, Gripps, and Vogel practically carried Amanda’s friends the rest of the way through the lobby, still wound tight and on the verge of major freak outs from seeing Blackwing. Martin held Drummer’s hand too tight as they ran. She somehow wished it was tighter.__

__The French House was in chaos. Drunken party-goers, having just had the worst halloween of their lives, ran in every direction. The crackle of radios with criss-crossing channels filled the air. Searchlights swept over the building and the streets below. The NOPD and Blackwing were so befuddled by Athos’ demise and the interference between departments that the lockdown was an utter failure._ _

__The Oh No van, left unlocked and illegally parked as always, managed to remain unscathed despite the madness outside. They piled in, three bodies heavier than usual, and Martin revved the engine._ _

__“How are we going to get out of here? There’s a roadblock ahead! It’s probably taking up the whole French Quarter by now,” Todd moaned, pushing aside the hanging chains to look out the front window._ _

__Martin drove up onto the sidewalk, tires scraping the curb. He made a sharp turn into an alleyway, flattening a wrought iron fence probably crafted in 1800, and sending a trash can flying into the air. Amanda turned to give her brother a significant look._ _

__“That’s how.”_ _

__“Oh. Nice.”_ _

__“Well done, everyone!” Dirk declared, apropos of nothing. When his only feedback was blank stares, he waved the package in his hands. “We just wrapped up our third successful case.”_ _

__“If you want to call it that,” Amanda said. She clung to the dashboard as Martin made another hairpin turn._ _

__Dirk counted off on his fingers. “We rescued our client, recovered the stolen goods, saved Miss Dubois, avoided Blackwing, probably saved New Orleans…”_ _

__“Sounds pretty good when you say it like that,” Martin lit a cigarette, maneuvering the wheel one-handed._ _

__

__They drove Dirk & Co. to the airport, stopping only to pick up the luggage and check out of the hotel in the most hasty and suspicious way possible. Dirk left his brown paper parcel at the front desk, to be mailed express to the Music Department of Tulane University. Farah, sick to death of New Orleans, had paid for tickets on the first Seattle-bound plane of the morning. She was the only one already back in her normal clothes, drinking a macchiato and looking put together for someone pushing 24 hours awake._ _

__Amanda gave her brother one last hug outside the airport while the Rowdy 3 waited in the van and Farah argued with Dirk about the definition of “carry-on bag”._ _

__“Call me when you get home. On the phone you pay for,” she said, into his shoulder._ _

__Todd released her, gazing into her eyes with quiet affection._ _

__“I will.”_ _

__He jerked his head in Martin’s direction._ _

__“So... the getaway driver.”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“He’s not such a bad guy. And now I’m one hundred percent sure he’d die for you, so I’m satisfied.”_ _

__“I think that’s exactly how he feels about you.”_ _

__She waved as they walked inside. Martin beeped the horn and Cross, Gripps and Vogel hollered to say goodbye._ _

__

__At six a.m. the Rowdy 3 were packed into a little booth in a cheap restaurant on the outskirts of town, still wearing most of their costumes. In a city full of hungover revelers, they actually fit in pretty well._ _

__Amanda, always a big fan of breakfast and of being with her favorite people, was back in high spirits. She turned to Martin, who had his arm draped across the seat behind her._ _

__“What’s it like? Doing that thing you do.”_ _

__Martin popped his fake fangs off one at a time and dropped them into his coffee saucer. “What thing?”_ _

__“The energy-sensing thing. When you can _feel_ the room,” Amanda bumped him with her shoulder. She was smiling in that unguarded way that made her dimples show. Martin felt like his heart was in danger of bursting into flames. He reached out to poke her cheek._ _

__“It’s like bein’ a dog, I reckon. Things smell different. Not smell, exactly. That’s just the closest thing I could say.”_ _

__“Smell like what?”_ _

Martin buried his nose in her hair. “Magic smells like,” _hot, earthy, wet, electric,_ “...a thunderstorm. On a hot summer day. Rain in the dirt.” 

__“Is that what I smell like? Hot dirt?”_ _

__Martin bared his teeth. “Sometimes you smell like magic. Most of the time you smell like you.”_ _

__Drummer raised her brows at him, expectant._ _

_Rebellion, trust, bubblegum, wildflowers, sex, spiced rum. And mine._

__He frowned. “Kind of… sparkly?”_ _

__“Sparkly hot dirt. Got it,” she nodded._ _

__“Let me double check,” he closed the distance between them to kiss her._ _

__When the Rowdies thought the kiss was going on too long they heckled and banged on the table. Gripps blew a straw wrapper at Martin’s head._ _

__“Yeah. Definitely sparkly.”_ _

__

__They were paying at the register by the door when Ken appeared behind them._ _

__The effect was immediate. Vogel, who had been putting quarters in a candy machine, threw down his change with a yell. Cross, his hand still halfway in the toothpick dispenser, whirled with a snarl. Martin stepped in front of all of them, ready to defend._ _

__The de facto Blackwing director lifted his arms in a gesture of peace. “Hey, hey. Easy. I don’t want to keep you. I just want to talk, here, for just a few minutes.”_ _

__“Go on outside, Drummer girl,” Martin stood still. He touched the back of each of his brothers as they passed, ushering them out._ _

__“If you’re not out safe and sound in ten minutes, we’re torching the place,” Amanda promised him, pointing at Ken. Gripps nodded in vigorous agreement, leading her through the door._ _

__“How about we sit down?”_ _

__The smaller man was going through great pains to appear collected. Martin noted with distaste how he imitated Priest’s cold competency._ _

__Martin tilted his head to look out the window. Drummer sat down on a newspaper box, doing twirling tricks with her wands and drumming a beat on her thighs. His brothers were pacing, watching the diner. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table._ _

__“The others might actually want a say in this,” Ken suggested._ _

__Martin stared at him in silence._ _

__“No, nevermind. I can see that you speak for the group.”_ _

__It was becoming creepy, really, how still the Rowdy was sitting._ _

__“I’ll cut to the chase. Blackwing wants to pay you for your services in the apprehension of Project Athos. Five hundred thousand dollars. 100k for each of you. In the hopes that we can… begin a better working relationship.”_ _

__He placed the check with great care on the table near Martin’s resting arm. Without warning, the Rowdy seized Ken’s wrist and held it in a painful grip._ _

__“Why would I want to take that?” his voice was calm and very dangerous._ _

__Ken’s gaze slid over to the two operatives stationed at other tables. They were both tense, hands out of view, waiting for his signal. He gave his head a barely perceptible shake and they backed down._ _

__Martin had not altered his gaze._ _

__“You know we ain't got a need for the things money can buy.”_ _

__“You don’t. She does,” Ken pointed at the window with his free hand. “Your partner. The Brotzman girl.”_ _

__Martin twisted Ken’s wrist, making him yelp in pain._ _

__“You don’t talk about her.”_ _

__The Blackwing agent pressed on through gritted teeth. “She can’t live on neurological energy like you can. She needs… human things. Food.”_ _

__“It’s covered.”_ _

“Forever? What if she gets sick? Needs to spend time in a hospital?” Ken, for all the indignity of his twisted arm, looked into Martin’s eyes and saw the tiny flicker of doubt. His voice dropped into a more confident cadence. This was his comfort zone. “I think… you’ve been living too long with the other Incubus subjects. You might think that Ms. Brotzman is one of you, that she can hack it like you can - but she is _not_ what you are.” 

__“We can take care of each other.”_ _

__“And how exactly does an energy vampire make an honest living? Do you expect her to work to support herself while the four of you do… whatever it is you do all day?”_ _

__There was an agonizing moment when Project Incubus Subject One would not respond, let go, or blink._ _

__“Put it in her name.” Martin released Ken’s arm._ _

The Blackwing agent took out a fountain pen and wrote _Amanda Brotzman_ on the check with quivering strokes. 

__The Rowdy picked it up and put it in his pocket so fast that it seemed to dematerialize._ _

__“It’s her choice. If she takes it, she don’t owe you a thing.”_ _

__He moved to leave. Ken mostly succeeded in suppressing his relief. The illusion was broken when Martin backed up a step and crouched by his ear, making him twitch._ _

__“You smell,” Martin said, too close to Ken’s head, “like fear and uncertainty. Maybe this isn’t the right role for you in… all this.”_ _

__Ken turned to face him and met only empty air. The bell above the door chimed._ _

__

Vogel was bending over the center armrest, fiddling with the radio. He found Turisas’ cover of _Rasputin_ and turned the volume as high as it would go, springing up with a grin and crashing straight into Cross and Gripps to start a mosh pit in the back of the van. Martin managed to headbang and keep his eyes more or less on the road. Amanda laughed and clapped. The Oh No van roared, devouring the highway going East. 

__Later there would be time enough to talk, to stop, to rest and clean up and plan for the future._ _

__But for now, they sprinted onward._ _

__Into the rising light of day._ _


End file.
